Chapter Fifteen
Mina protested weakly against Zack taking her home, and when he unceremoniously told her to shut up, she didn’t argue any further. She didn’t even call him an ass, which was concerning. It was fine with him that she didn’t speak much on the way to her apartment. He seemed to have lost his flair for quick, witty conversation anyway. At five in the evening, there was no parking available, because of course everyone in New York City owned a car for the express purpose of hoarding a parking space for all eternity. Muttering a string of curses, he prepared to circle around again.
“What are you doing?” Mina sat up straighter, wincing.
He dropped his eyes to her shoulder, then back to her face. “Looking for someplace to park.”
She stopped fidgeting with her seatbelt. “Non, you can’t come up.”
“I’m coming up.”
“Zack-”
“You were mugged. I just want to make sure you’re safe, petite. Then I’ll go.”
Worrying her bottom lip with her teeth, she seemed at war with herself for a few seconds, then relaxed. “Fine. There’s a garage underneath the building. The entrance is on the street opposite.”
“Where am I going?” he asked when they were underground.
“I’m unit eight—over there.”
He pulled into the narrow space and switched off the engine. Gently, he brushed his fingers through the mess of curls at her hairline, grinning when they snagged on a tangle. “I don’t think you need to worry about anyone recognizing you.”
“Connard!” she snapped, turning her face away.
There it is.
His heart twisted.
He hadn’t seen hide nor hair of her in two days, and when he finally did, both were in a sorry state of affairs. For the first time since meeting her, she appeared as small as she was. It was like she’d shrunk, turning inward and folding in on herself. Her eyes looked exhausted and wary…but there was a healthy flush to her face. The fire was still there, however faint.
Thank God.
“Atta girl.”
She was more than a little wobbly when she stood from the car, so he bent and scooped her into his arms, shutting the door with his foot. “Come on, Bambi.”
“Espèce d’idiot! Je m’apelle Mina!”
He chuckled, as much from amusement as from relief.
Yup. Still there.
Walking them through her front door, he promptly kicked it shut and leaned back against it, supporting her easily in his arms. “Good management here at least. I wasn’t expecting them to change the locks in a timely manner.”
“You weren’t expecting it?” She sounded incredulous. “You said incompetent, lazy, and criminal negligence in the same sentence when you yelled at him on the phone—you said if I was abducted or murdered, he’d be an accessory—”
“Jesus. You heard all that?”
Her body shook softly. “Everyone heard it.”
They fell quiet. His thoughts spun like pennies, racing through the events of a day that felt like three, wobbling faster and faster until coming to an abrupt stop. So much had happened, but there hadn’t been time to do anything but react until now.
“Mina?”
Great, I sound completely unhinged.
“Zack?”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m okay.” Her body stiffened, but she didn’t try to stand up, or demand that he put her down.
His heart did a slippery swirl in his chest, because the war within her filled the silence as surely as if she was fighting it aloud. It felt like the moment in the car when she was deciding if she’d let him in.
God, what a perfect metaphor.
Painfully perfect. Genius, really. Too bad he wasn’t in any condition to appreciate it. He flinched instinctively as her warm hands framed his face.
“Are you?” she asked.
He sucked in a breath in wonder at the woman he held. After the ordeal she’d suffered, and the tedious hours following—she was asking him if he was okay? That was it. His brave front, his tenacity, his strength—were all decimated by two whispered words. Tightening his grip on her, he bent his knees, sliding with her to the floor, touching his forehead to hers.
“You scared the shit out of me, Mina.”
“I know.”
“I feel like a tool for even saying it, knowing how scared you must have been.” He rubbed her back gently. “Knowing how—annoyed I was, at you—before it was obvious something was wrong. I thought you were avoiding me.”
She averted her eyes.
Not far off the mark, then.
“So many scenarios ran through my mind before you walked through those doors,” he said. “Each one worse than the last. And then you just dropped, and my heart fucking stopped. I was annoyed, and you were out there—Fuck. I’m so sorry, petite-”
“Sshhh.” Stroking his cheeks with her thumbs, her warm peanut buttery breath tickling his face, she pressed her lips to his.
He fell head-long into the kiss, drowning in the musk and heat of her, breathing her breath, feeling the warmth and fullness of her lips against his, the pitter patter of her heart against the violent pounding of his own. It was blessed relief. Life tasting life and being unendingly grateful for it. She flinched a little, reminding him of her sprained shoulder, and that he was squeezing her in his need to have her closer. Proof positive she was whole and here and fine.
“I’m fine,” she said, as if reading his thoughts.
“You’re fine.” He tested the words, letting them hang in the silence, then caught a whiff of her natural aroma tinged with the odor of sweat and city sludge.
She must have felt self-conscious, because she crinkled her nose and looked down at her soiled tank top.
“Tell me what you need,” he said.
“A hot bath, preferably with a pillow.”
He was on his feet in one smooth motion, with her still latched to him like a tree frog. “Clearly, you’re not well, and I’m gonna have to supervise you so you don’t drown in your tub.”
When he’d seen to it that Mina was neck-deep in warm, sudsy water (he’d misinterpreted the French label, so she was going to come out smelling like her shampoo from head to toe—which he didn’t see as a bad thing), he navigated to her kitchen to see what he could throw together for her to eat. She’d fight him on it, but he’d win.
Opening the refrigerator door, he recoiled. “Christ, it’s a botany experiment in here.”
Sifting through the wilted, the moldy, and the possibly fermenting, he failed to salvage enough ingredients to make anything substantial, so he tried another tack. Twenty minutes later, food was on its way, he’d rid her fridge of anything suspiciously green and fuzzy, and discovered the cleaning supplies in her hall closet…tucked in a corner, away from her impressive collection of shoes. The flaming red ones screamed for him to touch them, so he did, even if it made him a foot-lusting perv. The points on the heels were sharp enough to qualify as weapons. He’d spent decades dancing on his toes but walking on those things without sustaining major injury was pretty damned impressive.
And hot.
Very hot.
He grinned.
The apartment was beautiful in an interior decorating magazine sort of way: classic, feminine, chic. But it was obvious she didn’t spend much time here. It wasn’t untidy but being Carmen’s son meant being able to eat from the table and floor and seeing the whites of his teeth on any shiny surface. So, he got to work. When his complimentary housekeeping services brought him to Mina’s living room, he straightened and smiled.
She had an actual chaise. A fancy one—cream, with buttons and intricate carving on the legs. This was where she lived when she was here, where a cozy blanket was thrown across the back, and a book lay open and upside down on the seat. Much like the sexy flaming shoes, the book was too enticing not to touch. It promised to reveal a secret about its reader: the kind of words she liked to fill her mind with.
“She Came to Stay,” by Simone de Beauvoir. He arched his brow at the cover’s description.
Kinky.
And smart.
And so, so complicated.
Fitting.
Hearing the shower come on, he stopped a moment, inclining his head toward her bedroom door. There was something else they had in common: showering after a bath. The coffee table was home to at least three more books of varying degrees of satire and scandal, a remote control, a couple of dirty tea cups, a stack of French magazines, and a miniature swan made of fancy aquamarine glass.
Cute. She must have a thing for swans.
Trying to ignore the way his jaw locked up at the way her sightseeing excursion had ended that day, he wiped down the table and picked up the books, preparing to shelve them. The setting sun pierced through the windows and caught on something on the bookshelf, sending rays of light in every direction. Squinting, he walked over to the shelf.
So, it wasn’t the world’s biggest diamond. He picked up the little swan figurine, crystal-clear and multifaceted—and heavy. This thing could double as a weapon, and from the looks of it, an expensive one. These weren’t his mother’s knick-knacks, that was for sure. By the time he finished the room, he’d counted at least a dozen tiny swans. Murano glass, crystal, porcelain, silver, gold—and likely materials he was too unsophisticated to identify. He lifted a figurine from the television stand, next to a photo of Mina and the man she wouldn’t talk about—not with him.
He swallowed, a physical reaction to the idea of being in some kind of twisted competition with a dead man. It was hard to dismiss, especially when they looked so cozy, cheek-to-cheek, wearing smiles that spoke of years of inside jokes and long, intimate conversations. Clearing his throat, he examined the weighty ornament of obsidian glass. Two swans faced each other, their long necks curved, their heads touching to form a heart.
“That’s one of my favorites.”
Zack startled a little and turned around, then tried not to look like a teenage boy seeing a pretty girl half naked for the first time—especially one in dire need of food and sleep. Outwardly, he may have succeeded, but inside, there was a wolf in a suit and tie, whose eyes had bugged out of his head and fallen to the floor.
Coming close, she gently took the figurine from his hand. “Étienne bought this one for me,” she said softly, turning it in her hand. “From the airport in Sydney. It reminded him of that movie, The Black Swan.”
She offered a sad little smile, and Zack couldn’t keep his eyes from wandering over her lips and the loose, springy curls of her hair.
“He hated that movie.” She followed up her sad little smile with a sad little laugh. “He thought Natalie Portman was beautiful but made a terrible ballerina.”
Zack fought to keep his eyes on her face. But again, it was hard. She wore the most absurd, ineffectual pajamas he’d ever seen—mere scraps of silk that covered nothing but the essentials, and even those made shadows beneath the delicate fabric of her shorts and cami. He frowned at the purpling on her left shoulder. When his eyes returned to her face, she was watching him, and it took the will of a thousand men not to react to the longing in her eyes.
Down, boy. She’s tired.
Hungry and tired.
Hungry and tired and just fucking got mugged.
Loud knocking sounded at the door, ending his internal pep talk.
Thank. Fuck.
“I ordered food.” His voice sounded like sandpaper.
“I’m not hungry.”
He tried to ignore the fact that hers did, too.
“Tough shit.” His lips tugged at the corners, and he went to answer the door.
As it turned out, she wasn’t a botanist, or a vegetarian. The lady just needed someone to feed her.
“It’s a good thing you’re the fourth highest paid ballerina in the world, or you’d starve…or die from inhaling spores,” he said, taking a bite of his own food.
Mina glared at him for an impressive stretch of time, until she’d finished chewing and swallowing a bite of scrambled egg-stuffed crepe. “I would not starve. I’d go out, or order in. I don’t have time to plan and make all my meals.”
“Fair enough.”
Finishing before her, he settled into the comfortable silence on the chaise beside her. He’d crossed his legs and was thumbing through one of the magazines when the crystal swan glinted again. “Where’d that one come from?” He nodded toward the bookshelf. “The sparkler that looks like a baseball diamond.”
She laughed, taking a sip of green juice and licking her lips. “Papa gave me that one, after my very first ballet.”
“I thought he died when you were eight?”
“Oui, he never saw me dance,” she said sadly. “But he took me to see Swan Lake for Christmas a year before he died. I know it’s cliché to call it magical, but I was just a child, and the lights, the costumes, the tiaras—All the dancers looked like princesses, and they moved so beautifully, like they were floating.”
Zack succumbed to the sparkle in her eyes, his heart doing the swimming thing again, and he suspected she’d had the same effect on her father when she was a little girl.
“He made an affair of it.” She looked past him, out of the window, obviously lost in her memories. “He got my hair done, bought me a new dress, and right before we left for the theater, he gave me that swan wrapped in white tissue paper.”
“There must be a dozen of them here. All of them, gifts?”
“Some of them. Some of them, I bought for myself.” She picked up the pretty blue swan from the coffee table. “My newest one, from Milan, after my tour as Giselle.”
It took her twenty minutes to finish eating and detail the origins of each miniature swan. He witnessed her mind transport to every locale she mentioned in her tales, riveted to her expressions, her voice, and the way she moved her hands when she was excited. She was like a swan herself—an origami swan, coming apart fold-by-fold to reveal the steps that made her.
“What about you?” She searched his face. “What was your first show?”
“Phantom of the Opera, when I was twelve.”
“Carmen?”
“Mmhmm, and Manny. I was teased by some kids at the rec center for my dance tights. I was so upset about it, I swore off ballet. Mamá and papá wanted me to see what was possible. They wanted to show me how strong and powerful and skilled those dancers were—how much they were admired.”
“Did it work?”
“What do you think?”
Her lashes fluttered, and he gave himself a mental high-five.
She sniffed. “You certainly don’t lack any confidence.”
Lowering his crossed leg, he shifted his body and moved in closer, inhaling her all-over shampoo scent. “Should I?”
Her breaths came audibly now. He couldn’t say he didn’t like it.
“N-non.”
Wrapping his hands around her calves and lifting her legs across his lap, he heard her breath catch. It was nice to know she wasn’t immune to him, even if she had concocted some grandiose plan to cut him off. (He wasn’t sure about this, but he was sure of her apprehension about any sort of relationship.)
She covered his hands with hers, resting them on the smooth skin of her thighs. “I like your confidence. I want to know where it comes from, who it comes from.” She lifted her eyes to his. “I want to know you.”
His heart did the slippery slide into a back-dive, then a three-quarter twist, and landed on a handstand. “What do you want to know?”
“How did you meet Vera?”
Biting his cheek, he thought back years and years. “I don’t think I remember, exactly. She’s as much a part of the performing arts as the venues where they’re put on—and probably just as old.”
Mina swatted his chest, and he caught her hand, bringing her fingers to his teeth for a nibble.
“It’s true,” he insisted. “Try and remember. I dare you.”
She perked up, probably at the chance to one-up him, but seconds later, she sported a tiny frown.
“Exactly,” he said. “People don’t meet her, so much as she finds them. She singles you out if she sees something extraordinary.” He gave her a meaningful look. “It was her and Alex who convinced me to cast you.”
She gasped. “You wanted someone else? Did you settle for me?”
“I—had some reservations, none of which had anything to do with your talent.”
Her face unequivocally demanded explanation, and he sighed. “It had to do with some rather…” Fuck. There was no way he was going to say anything that didn’t paint him a complete douche. “I was an idiot, petite. I’d seen a bunch of news stories in the last year with your face splattered all over them below salacious headlines surrounding the death of your friend—in very tacky font.”
She stiffened. “I… it’s not what you think.”
“A great cliché in movies, but I’ll admit, it falls a little flat in real life.” He couldn’t help the bite in his tone.
Mina winced.
“Shit.” He ruined his hair with his fingers. “I’m sorry, petite. That’s not fair. I know it’s not.”
It grew quiet again, one of those moments where he wasn’t sure she’d talk again, or maybe slap the taste from his mouth.
“If I keep it to myself,” she said softly, “it can’t be perverted the way you saw in les tabloïds. Even the truth is twisted to sound sleazy. We partied, oui, but no more than anyone else. I suppose my truth is too boring to them, so they paint me as a socialite who only made Les Étoiles because of affirmative action. My truth is…I miss him. Every day, I miss him. I don’t want to share his memory with strangers.”
Am I a stranger?
Mercifully, the thought didn’t reach his lips. That’s not what she meant, and he knew it, but there was still a nagging stab in his chest that there was some truth to it. This was one of her origami folds he hoped she’d be comfortable enough to show him someday. For now, it was enough that he was here. It was enough that there was trust. She must have read his resignation, the apology in the stroke of his fingers over hers, because when she spoke again, all trace of timidity was gone.
“When Vera showed up at my mother’s apartment in Paris, I almost agreed without knowing what I was getting myself into. She mentioned you, and all I kept thinking was, This is it. This is my chance to get out of the box and try something new and exciting.”
“And now? How do you feel?”
“Enfin, I was scared. I’m still scared. But anything worth doing is a little scary.”
“You have incredible instincts, Mina. You just have to trust them.”
She stiffened.
“What?”
“You hardly ever call me Mina. Petite, things I can’t repeat…arbitrary characters from ancient cinema-eeek!”
He attacked her ribs with quick, merciless fingers. “Eight years is hardly ancient.” He tickled her until she was cry-laughing and desperate for breath.
“D’accord! Arrêtes! Please! Okay, okay, okay!”
Remembering her shoulder, he cursed. “I’m sorry. Is it-”
“I’m okay.” When she could breathe again, her abs still contracting in aftershocks, she met his eyes with curiosity. “How did you come to be a playwright? No matter what, I will always be a dancer first. It’s like it’s in my blood. If I could choose only one thing, I would choose dance. But you…” She turned his hand over in her lap, tracing the pattern of the broken M on his calloused palm with her fingertips. “You write as well as you dance. You sing as well as you write. I suspect the choice isn’t as easy for you.”
Wow.
“What?” she asked this time. “What did I say?”
“The most intriguing thing. It didn’t occur to me until just now, but I think you’re right. They’re all equally a part of me, and I’ve loved them all since I was a kid.”
There was that curious spark again.
He kissed her fingers. “I can’t remember who said this, but I think it’s mostly true, that the artist is born in an unhappy child. Some kids have teddy bears, or security blankets—I had my imagination. If shit got bad, I’d make something up and disappear. I could control where, and when, and who, and what. Having that control when everything else made me feel powerless was everything. It stayed with me, I guess. And now I do it for fun.”
It wasn’t pity he saw in her endless brown eyes, but recognition. Their childhoods were vastly different, but the fact they’d experienced similar loss and loneliness at points in their lives felt—comforting.
“Those notebooks in your room,” she murmured. “There must be a hundred of them.”
He nodded. “Comics, poems, plays—some of it is just ideas or characters scribbled down. I’ll have to live a thousand years to get to them all.”
“Tell me, what was the first musical you ever saw? –Non, I have a better question…”
Chuckling, he hiked a brow at her in curiosity.
“What is the musical? The one that started it all?”
Letting go a deep, contemplative breath, the lyrics came back to him clear and vibrant as day. “I was eight when I saw Les Mis on TV when I lived with Foster Mom Number Two. There had to be six of us in that house—it was a zoo. I was sucked into the story—outraged for the guy who went to jail for so long, just for stealing bread. But he got out. And when he did? Nobody wanted to cut him a break, so he had to make it on his own.”
She yawned, obviously running out of steam. Her eyes were glassy, and her words came slower. “You related to him. The hopelessness, and the feeling that no one would help you?”
“You could say that. But I also related to the hopefulness. It gave me hope that he changed his fate. That, and I got to tear around the house screaming the words to ‘Master of the House’ at the top of my lungs.”
Another yawn. “Very inappropriate. I wasn’t allowed to sing it because of the words whore, bastard and inebriate.”
“Oh? What did you sing?”
Shifting awkwardly, she seemed to be losing her battle with fatigue, a full-body stretch-yawn combination laying her out like a cat. “I didn’t. Not really. I had voice lessons until I made les Étoiles, but I had to give them up after that. Ballet was too demanding. Besides, musicals were still very much an américain tradition when I was younger. The lyrics didn’t translate so well.”
He tssked, easing from underneath her. “That’s very sad. How lucky you are that a playwright swooped in to save you from a mediocre existence.”
Covering her with the blanket, he lingered a moment, tangling his fingers in her curls, brushing a kiss on her cheek. Whatever she responded faded into mindless babble, and then soft, steady snores.